He shifts a little closer on the bench, until our shoulders touch. I could explain that away as him wanting to be close so there’s no chance of anyone—or anything—overhearing. I’d rather explain it away as him just wanting to be close to me. It feels right sitting here like this with him, which makes no sense because all my danger alarms are clanging full blast.

“I need you to answer some questions for me,” I say softly, still looking at the plastic tub in my lap. “Before we—” Before we what? Date? Hold hands? Kiss? What am I thinking? What is he thinking? We might not even be on the same page. I shouldn’t be on that page. Jackson Tate is moody and bossy, cocky and a little scary, and not the sort of boy I would ever in my life think about that way.

Except here I am, thinking about him exactly that way.

And here he is, saying things that make me believe he’s doing the same, even though for some reason, he thinks that’s not in my best interest.

“It’d be nice if you were less cryptic.”

He smiles, a quick flash of white teeth. “See, now you’re being cryptic because you’re not telling me what you think I’m being cryptic about.”

“I—” I press my lips together and shake my head. He’s being purposely confusing.

Jackson leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, looking straight ahead at the empty baseball diamond. “Ask. I might even answer.”

I swivel around on the bench to face him, one leg on either side, the plastic sandwich container balanced on my thigh. “Can I—”

He waits, and when I don’t continue, he says, “What?”

“Can I see you without your glasses? I want to look in your eyes while we talk.”

His mouth kicks up at the corners in that dark, sexy, dangerous smile. “You’ve seen me without my glasses. You know what’s behind them. Not scared I’m going to suck your life away?”

“If you were planning to kill me, you wouldn’t have saved my life in the game.”

The smile disappears. “Maybe I’m planning something worse.”

I roll my eyes. “Stop with the secretive, self-hating threats. Let’s just have a conversation. A normal conversation. It’s like you’re trying to scare me away.”

“I am.” He pauses. “You’re obsessed with normal. Sometimes being outside the norm is good. It makes you special.”

My mouth goes dry because I know he didn’t mean that as a generic use of the word you. He means me. He thinks I’m special.

“What are we doing here, Jackson?”

The smile comes back. “Having a conversation,” he says, purposely misunderstanding me. He turns his face toward me. I don’t even try to hide my frustration. “You’re gorgeous when you’re annoyed, Miki Jones. Your cheeks get all pink”—he brushes the backs of his fingers along my cheek—“and your eyes get sort of squinty.”

I laugh, but the sound comes out breathless. “I’m gorgeous when I squint?”

“You’re always gorgeous.”

I shake my head. I never really think about myself that way and, until Jackson, I never cared if anyone else did.

He swivels on the bench so he’s straddling it, facing me, mirroring my posture. Then he tips his glasses up so they rest high on his forehead and stares at me for a long moment. I stare back, taking my time, really looking at him. His eyes are Drau silver, both human and inhuman at the same time. The Drau’s pupils are long and oval, slitted like a reptile’s—which makes sense if they come from a planet that’s so bright. The slit would allow them to narrow their pupil in a way that protects them from the strength of the light.

But Jackson’s pupils are round and human. His lashes are long and spiky and darker than I expected. His eyes are widely spaced, his brows sandy brown and straight, one of them bisected by a scar. From the same Drau attack that scarred his arm? From something else? Without thinking, I reach out and run my finger along the scar. His brows rise. I drop my hand. And my eyes never leave his.

They’re exactly as I remember them, frightening and foreign and beautiful.

“Can you do what they do?” I whisper, remembering the way it felt to look in the Drau’s eyes, the pain, the sensation of drowning and losing myself, of having my life sucked away.

His expression shuts down. This topic is clearly off the table.

I redirect and come at it from a different angle. “How do they do it? What exactly are they doing?”

“I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll tell you what I know,” he says. In generic terms. I won’t talk about me and what I can or can’t do, he doesn’t say. “It’s like tuning in to a radio station. They catch your gaze, catch your frequency. The human body works on electrical charges. Action potentials. That’s what makes your muscles work. Your nerves. Your brain cells. Everything. The—” He looks around and lowers his voice. “The Drau grab that electricity and drain you dry, like draining a battery. That’s why it feels like they’re sucking the life out of you. Because they are. By the time they’re done, they leave a husk without any spark to fire the engine.”

I shudder, remembering exactly how that felt. “Why the eyes?”

“That’s a tough one. There’s no one I can really ask about this stuff.” He pauses. “No, that’s not totally true. There’s the Committee. I can ask them, but they don’t always answer, or if they do, it’s sometimes a bit philosophical and hard to grasp, so it’s the same as having no one to ask.”